Welcome to my bloggy home. Here, I strive to make you laugh like never before, cry warmhearted tears, get silly, and be naughty. Together, we'll uncover morsels of sweetness in the light and dark. You'll leave craving chocolate. That's a given. I'm a bad influence. Oy vey, am I a bad influence! {But I do recommend fair trade and organic varieties.} Please enjoy the samples, and may you fast become addicted. I hope you'll return again and again. Then once more.

One Rainbow Tribe in an Orange World (but only for now).

Sunday, January 31, 2010

We interrupt this program with urgent international blogcast news. These judges are changing their wardrobes (sorry for bursting into your dressing room, ladies!) in preparation for the main event: announcement of the winning nomination for the 10th Worst Song to Play When You Want to Get Lucky. In the meantime, voters continue to scurry madly to the polls. There is still time to cast your vote, as we still have a few "I Voted for the 10th Worst Song to Play When You Want to Get Lucky" stickers left. Free of charge! Now, back to your regularly scheduled mundane activities.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

1) Three Times A Lady ~Lionel RichieHint: No woman wants to get naked to this song.
2) My Life Would Suck Without You ~ Kelly ClarksonSample lyrics: I know that I have issues, but you're pretty messed up too.
3) U Can't Touch This! ~ MC Hammer
4) We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off [to Have a Good Time] ~Jermaine Stewart
5) Big 'Ole Butt Song ~ LL Cool J.Sample lyrics: Tina got a big 'ole butt. I know I told you I'd be true. But Tina got a big ole butt. So I'm leavin' you.Note: This may have the desired effect if her name is Tina and her butt is much bigger than her brain. Test this theory at your own risk.
6) Big 'Ole Butt Song ~ Puff DaddySample lyrics, and please note the more creative twists to this assinine (pun intended) "song": Keisha's got a big 'ole butt (uh-huh). I know I told you I'd be true. (I lied baby.) But Keisha's got a big 'ole butt. So I'm leavin' you. (Yeah that's right.)Note: See note above. Replace Keisha's big 'ole butt for Tina's big 'ole butt.
7) I Touch Myself ~ DivinylsSample lyrics: I touch myself. I don't want anybody else. Oh no, oh no, oh no..And when I think about you I touch myself..ooh, oooh, ooooh, aaaaaah.
8) Oops! I Did it Again ~ Britney SpearsSample lyrics: Oops! I did it again to your heart. Got lost in this game. Oh baby. Oops!
9) I Kissed A Girl ~ Katy PerrySample lyrics: I kissed a girl just to try it. I hope my boyfriend don't mind it.Note: This blogger is impressed with Katy's level of sensitivity to her boyfriend's feelings.
10) - You fill this in, dear reader. Go wild with suggestions, and I'll choose the best or -actually- worst. I hope you get lucky!

Sunday, January 24, 2010

While Haiti faces devastation across its people and land, and while human beings throughout patches of the earth witness inexplicable atrocities on a daily basis, one famous American (Heidi Montag, not to mention any names) fights to convince her fans that her decision to undergo 10 plastic surgeries in one day was influenced by God’s will.

Ms. Montag, what I’d like to say to you, girlfriend, with not a smidgen of respect whatsoever but every intention of offending, is as follows: Get your head out of your a-, as- You ask who she is. So do I. The best response I can give is the likely estimate that she’s just another dumb blond famous American. Those four words (i.e., “dumb blond famous American”) typify greater (i.e., lesser) American values. Let's be honest. Did I mention that I’m part Canadian and only partly blond? Well, the blond is gray now, but I do prefer to call it blond. Sorry. Keep faith, my dear reader. Something meaningful is in the works. That’s gotta be true. Right? Somewhere someone in the world is hard at work on something meaningful right about now.

Back to our American value “system,” this blessed nation seems to have (de)volved into a people that worships anyone who (1) generally appears attractive, with blondness a key factor of said attractiveness; (2) was born into a wealthy family; and (3) has a strikingly limited quantity of active brain cells.

Further, it appears to help one’s reputation to, say, produce a pornographic video that will naturally be released by the ex upon the inevitable break-up. Another means for enhancing one’s notoriety might be to marry in Vegas several times a year and birth several kids then transport these children in one's vehicle without strapping them in safely. Perhaps the complexities of fastening a seatbelt are too complex.

Sadly, the real heroes are never really appreciated during their lifetimes. Now, we even chunk Washington and Lincoln together in one celebration of President’s Day. Why give poor Lincoln the shaft once again? The man’s excruciating existence entailed fighting every minute, even within his own party, to argue that human beings should not enslave other human beings. Lincoln set the groundwork for other heroes like Martin Luther King Jr. to carry the torch.

In comparison, what are we looking at with good 'ole George? He did lead the militia and government, but it's believed that he owned slaves. This is a fairly well substantiated but selectively forgotten detail. Alas, the cherry tree store is universally embraced. We all know that, when George was a mere lad, he chopped down a cherry tree. It must have taken a lot of muscle flexing on the little guy's part. Subsequently, with the fallen tree within immediate visual range of their abode, Georgie confessed to his pops that he had chopped it down. Yet 'lil George confessed onlyupon paternal interrogation. Rather a stretch to merit a shared day with Lincoln. What choice did Georgie have? You're hard pressed to hide a fallen cherry tree.

What I’m saying amidst all this talk of blondness and fallen cherry trees and all is that our American values are warped. Great people are hated because they are threats to the idiots, and the idiots far outnumber the greats. Too many stupid people are extolled for time immemorial. Meanwhile, we would do well to take lessons from much less privileged, and much wiser, societies.W

My point is not one of blond-bashing. I did in fact go fully blond years ago.Plus, I have known some brilliant blond women and men, and I'm Ellen DeGenes’ #one-millionth fan. She’s a cute, smart, hilarious woman with blond hair. With a smart, sexy, talented wife with blond hair too.
Americans are generally stupid. Blond, bald, auburn, green, whatever’s on the surface of our scalps, we are stupid. We call someone great because they’re viewed by the masses as attractive -perhaps because they have blond hair, or make pornographic videos. Actually, the degree of a person's genuine talent is often inversely related to their popularity.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

The moment our eyes met, a surging wave of emotions held me captive. My heart raced and palms began sweating as he walked towards me, slowly and with a tentative confidence. A clumsy grin on his face and hopeful twinkle in his eyes, he clearly felt the same. Slowly, his feet led him closer and closer to my table in the active café. Alas, he extended his hand, and with nothing more than a brief lukewarm handshake, the moment had arrived. This was it. They say you just know these things, and I did. I knew he was it. He was the one: the one, the one hundred and fifty third blind date from hell.

It had all the makings: the Internet photo of a man two decades younger, 50 pounds lighter, and with a full head of hair; the attempts at conversation comprising awkward tedious sound bites pre and post awkward tedious sound bites. As I pondered whether the photo that I had delighted in was actually him or perhaps his son, or grandson even, he suggested we get in line for drinks. I must admit, this one was truly different. He stepped in front of me without hesitation to order first. My turn came, and he watched with silent deliberation as the cashier charged me $1 for a cup of hot cocoa that would, in theory, sustain me. The clock ticked, but time stood still. The eager cashier extended her hand to receive the money. The dude looked towards me, a dumbfounded “What are you waiting for?” expression across his face. I furiously dug into my purse for one freaking dollar, a single lousy freaking dollar, a single lousy stinking freaking dollar! (But I digress.) Chivalry was surely dead.

Back at the table, we alternately glimpsed at our wristwatches every 8 minutes, or seconds, or so. I fantasized about being home alone, clipping my toenails with focus and precision. He opened his mouth to release a barrage of hypnotic verbiage, including his love for his mother, his dutiful dog Edgar, and all kinds of things I that could not even begin to pretend to be remotely interested in. His cell phone rang. He took the call, smugly and without pause. He proceeded to make detailed plans for an upcoming fishing excursion, glancing at me intermittently with a look that said, “Aren’t I the coolest thing since Kool-Aid?” Moments became years, and he finally hung up, only to begin an excruciatingly specific monologue about his agenda for the rest of the weekend.

Luck was on my side, as I happened to notice I had a message on my cell. “Oh, you know, I have the ringer off, so I didn’t hear it. But I’ve been waiting on a call from my brother. He’s been having problems with his ovaries; I mean, uh, ulcers. It’s a bit of a tender subject, so you’ll have to excuse me while I step out to return the call.” I played frantic and distraught, not too difficult under the circumstances. I grabbed my purse and jacket and walked away briskly.

I reached into my purse, where I would have had a cell phone had I carried one. I grabbed my car keys and made a mad dash to my Integra. I never looked back. I’ll never forget that moment.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

A re-post disclaimer: To follow is a re-post. Note that, thanks to your wise advice, I have given up the re-date thing. It's no good. You are right. I am doing a re-post, though, because this piece was accepted for publication. I only had about 2 followers when I initially posted it, and I was one of them. My sister was the other. I'm still paying her off for that one too. Any way, I hope you enjoy The Kiss. Sometimes, they do save a gal's life.

Waiting for that phone call, I go ballistic. We hadn’t seen each other in 4-1/2 days. That’s it. We’re doomed. He must be dead, I think, as I put down my phone. Why else would I be getting that damn outgoing message for the sixth time this past hour? He didn’t have time to talk yesterday. He’s not available for dinner tomorrow. If he’s still alive, he’s going to dump me. I’m on fire as I scramble through the kitchen cabinets, shoving aside a zillion Rubber made containers of all dimensions, tossing over my shoulder a dozen or so lids that appear to match none of them, creating an interesting menagerie on my white tile floor. Damnit! There’s got to be one freaking piece of chocolate somewhere in my apartment. The walls come crashing in on me. My heart is racing. Tears stream down my cheeks and drop onto the tiles with a thunder. I just can’t find that See’s candies box I got last summer.

But in one shining moment, it all lifts. A euphemistic calm pervades every cell of my being. A white rectangular box. Could that be an “S” I see on the lid? And an “e,” a double “e” in fact? I clench this once unattainable yet so desperately craved and, moreover, mandatory possession. I pull it onto the open, greedy palms of my anxious hands. I inhale the sweet, luscious, orgasmic morsels that I am beyond ready to ravage. With anticipation and purpose, I open the box. With fury and shock verging on psychosis, I stare at the cluster of empty brown perforated wrappers put back neatly into their rightful places. How could this be? How could my life have possibly spiraled downward to such a helplessly dismal place?!

While I stare at the empty wrappers with not a fragment of chocolate on them, a layer of doom envelopes my already plagued existence. The phone rings. It’s him. As I continue staring into the cabinet, I remember that I should probably be relieved the guy isn’t dead. “Hello” I say, as I reach for a Hershey’s kiss in silver wrapping that had hidden itself behind the See’s candies box for an amount of time that had absolutely no relevance. I don’t even remember having taken the wrapper off, as my tongue welcomes the taste of precious, succulent chocolate. “I’m doing great,” I proclaim, wiping a drop of saliva off my chin. “How are you?”

Friday, January 8, 2010

This is a non-alcoholic post, sorry to disappoint. What I’d like to say is: !@#$%^&*+!!!!! I’m going to be published for the second time in 15 years! Slow and steady for this gal. Back then, I took on the lighthearted subject of Jewish students’ experiences with Anti-Semitism on the UC Berkeley campus. The magazine best known for its articles, or lack thereof, got wind of my research and called me for an interview. Thus, I was interviewed by a Penthouse magazine “reporter.” I was featured, no clothes (or picture, sorry to disappoint again) in the big 25th anniversary issue. For those of you who use, I mean read, Penthouse, for articles (that aren’t worn), I was published in the same edition as those repulsively memorable pictures of Tonya Harding and Jeff Guilula their honeymoon.

Suddenly, hundreds or a handful of my friends offered to shop for the magazine to spare me the embarrassment of making the purchase. But I was determined to pick it up with my bare hands. When I very nervously ventured to make that purchase, I had to buy, uh, a hairbrush and, uh, some gum. I also needed a more respectable magazine. People it was. I then plopped it all in front of the cashier, with Penthouse on the bottom of the pile. Wait, I needed to flip it over and turn it upside down first.

“I’m just buying that because I’m published in it,” I announced to the cashier, reprieving myself of any sense of blasphemy. The woman shot me a blank look that said, “I don’t give a crap. Just hand over your money and scram, kid.” But you didn't even ask for my ID, I thought, highly disappointed that I (1) looked my age and (2) was committing blasphemy with such ease. So I went home with my Penthouse, Trident spearment gum, a pink hairbrush that I never used, and a copy of People with chimpanzees on the cover.

Upon thrusting it out of the bag and opening to page 38, I was shocked to behold that the Penthouse “reporter” misquoted me. How young and naive a gal in her 20’s can be. I believed everyone who told me they read it for the quality articles. I expected justice had been earned by this writer! No, my statements had been taken out of context and magnified in font that was at least 24 point occupying a prominent text box centering the page. The savvy "reporter" spelled my name correctly, so I decided to enjoy the magazine. It wasn't worth getting distraught over.

Let me bring you on home now, dear reader, as I sit at my usual spot in front on my loyal HP. The tone and substance of my writing seem to have shifted subtly over the years. I’ve shifted from researching sociological phenomenon that set the foundation for genocide to, dating, sex, and stuff like that. Wow, I’m repressed. I mean, wow, I’ve regressed.

The point of the matter is that yesterday, I was offered some money for my writing! What I’d like to say again is: !@#$%^&*+!!!!! Woo hoo! Sorry, I’m back. My dear followers, I will be published in Being Single Magazine. The circulation may be smaller than the Penthouse predators. But this one is a high quality, respectable publication. It’s based out of Chicago and run by a reputable Publisher and well known author, Bonita Bennett. She’s my hero. I’d like to exclaim once more: !#&!#@*^&*!!

Monday, January 4, 2010

I had a re-date last night. To be clear, I did not have a first or second date last night. I did not have a me date, a wee date, a pee date, or an afternoon tea date last night. So now that we’re on the same page, I rank it as pretty okay, as far as re-dating goes. The standards for re-dating are, logically, a bit more rigid than the typical dating standards.

When it comes to the re-date, the other person needs to profoundly up the ante to make up for his, or hers - I suppose but not really, ways. After all, it could not have been me or you, dear reader, who was at fault for the rupture in the first place. Thus, the other re-dater needs to perform exceptionally well this time 'round.

In this case, my re-dater had stopped calling months ago after about 6 dates. He was also very suave in imparting all indication that he was not at all interested. See Top 10 Signs the Dude's Just Not Into You. He inspired that piece. Alas, I felt jilted but being the mature, sophisticated, grounded woman that I am, I fired off a nasty email to him. As it goes in life, the last thing I expected was the first thing that happened. He called to ask me out again.

This inquiry came with a sincere apology, aligned with flattering compliments about my appearance. But I have learned my lessons. They can’t and won’t suck me in this way. No. I’m not weak or naive. Not anymore. Not this single divorced woman. I don’t need a man and I’m not settling. Damnit. No, instead I gently reminded him of a few things that were perhaps a bit less than perfect for me and then, AND ONLY THEN dear reader, did I jump on him. I mean, did I readily agree to the re-date.

Let’s face it, anytime you preface the word “date,” it’s a red flag. Hell, use of the word alone sends enough red flags flying to stop all traffic in Detroit. Further, the need, I mean the magical opportunity, for a re-date means that neither of you has successfully found another person who is suitable for dating. Therein resides the mystical formula for re-dating.

Years ago, I had a party. My friend, Diana, brought her husband along with a close male friend of hers. She introduced this friend as someone who “pre-dates” them as a couple. The concept of pre-dating filled the room with excitement. We were thrilled to consider this strategy. (This was years ago, mind you, and thus much closer to the 60’s.) I tried desperately to recruit the guy to do some of my pre-dating, but he wouldn’t have it. He declined.

Yet wouldn’t it be great to have a friend do all of your pre-dating for you? Bottom line here, I don’t trust my own judgment. I can’t. I have no reason to. Cases in point: the exes, except the ones who might happen to be reading this. You’re still the one for me, babe. Wink, wink, hair fling, kiss, and *#@**!! Sigh.

Anyway, I do believe that a caring friend should complete one round of the initial dating for you. I don’t think that’s asking too much. After all, we’d do it for them, right? Think about all you could learn, at no emotional or practical investment whatsoever. You’d get the important questions answered: Is he cute? How did he smell? Did he talk about the ex? Did he make a move? What was that like? Would you do him? Did you do him?

I suppose I cannot take full credit for this invention, given the escort industry and all. I haven’t accessed this service myself, else I’d have a much greater blog following. I do imagine, though, that the problem with escorts is that they are not so likely to are about you. It’s not their goal. No, I’m pretty sure they’re just doing it all to earn a buck. What good are they, really? Never mind. Perhaps that’s for another time, when I do set out to increase my following exponentially. I am starting to feel desperate (to increase my following that is. What were you thinking, there?), so stay tuned on that score. Or not.

Back to my point, again, as if I even have one. Whether or not I will have any re-re-dates, only time will tell. But I do predict that the pre-dating phenomenon will take off in 2010. Any volunteers?